


it feels better biting down

by heart_nouveau



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, F/F, Femslash, Future Fic, Identity Issues, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_nouveau/pseuds/heart_nouveau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Up close, Daenerys burned with a heat that was tepid, contained, not as terrifying as Sansa would have guessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it feels better biting down

 

She was taken back to the capitol from the Vale, heart as cold as stone, skin as pale and cool as marble, lifting her skirts as she stepped over the corpse of Petyr Baelish. As soon as the battle was complete she’d been exchanged like so many spoils of war—freed of one captor, only to be made a prisoner once again. Escorting her in her new captivity were the strange soldiers who spoke a language she could not understand, and who seemed unaffected by the cold despite their meager armor. She was Alayne Stone coming down the mountain, swathed in anonymous dark colors, the colors of no house.

Back in the muggy, horrible stink of King’s Landing, then, within the suffocating walls of the castle she had fought so hard to escape, she pulled her sleeve over her mouth and breathed deeply to relieve herself of the smell. Terrible it may be, but she would not cry. She was a Stark—had once been a Stark—and she would not cry.

Marched in by silent soldiers, Sansa was put before the dragon queen, who lounged upon the throne in an astonishing blaze of white from her hair to her foreign garment, so brilliant that she was difficult to look upon. Tears pricked the corners of Sansa’s eyes, startled into sharp being by the realization of exactly where she was, and what that meant. And the Targaryen queen, whose legend had preceded her to every corner of the country, demanded Sansa’s name.

Sansa Stark was bone tired of games and, tasting her own weariness, she gave the bright-burning queen the truth. For no longer did she truly believe she would ever be able to return to her ancestral home in the North.

After all, here she had returned, full circle, to the Throne room where her grandfather and uncle had died at the hands of the dragon queen’s father. Where now, instead of vines and flowers or bloody Lannister red, there blazed vicious fires and three great beasts coiled at Daenerys’ feet like creatures emerged from some storybook, their tongues licking lashes of orange flame. They said, too, that the queen’s dragons would grow even larger.

Even now, her fantastic beasts only as big as horses, Daenerys Stormborn had been able to take back the continent she claimed by birthright. Parts of it were still razed, up in flames: Sansa had seen it crossing the country to return to the capitol. It was said that the war would soon be finished now that the Targaryen queen had come, but Sansa doubted it. She doubted it very much.

But the dragon queen, so beautiful in that terrible white-fire way, surprised Sansa by speaking the name of her half-brother, saying things that meant he was not Sansa’s half-brother at all. And, in a voice so loud that it echoed throughout the Throne room, the queen promised that Jon Snow would soon come to the capitol, and—most incredibly—when this came to pass, Sansa would be given leave to return with him to the North.

Sansa would not believe a word of it until Jon was presented to her. Yet something lifted in her chest, so unfamiliar that she hardly recognized it for what it was—hope, if only a little.

But before she could move, step forward to lay down her dutiful thanks, the dragons at Daenerys’ feet seethed and spat fire, writhing in a great mass together. Sansa shuddered, drawing back the hem of her gown. She looked up quickly, hoping that Daenerys had not seen, but the dragon queen wore a knowing expression when she met Sansa’s eyes. She gave Sansa only a calm smile, not showing her teeth. Sansa imagined that those teeth would be as white and sharp as those of the queen’s own beasts.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She dropped into a low curtsey, lowering her head towards the ground like a docile animal. She shivered, suddenly, to recognize the familiar flagstones at the base of the steps leading to the throne. There was a pattern of faded glass tiles that had probably been there since time immemorial, colored a smoky grey like ashes. The last time she’d seen them she’d been on her knees begging for her father’s life. That was the last time she had thought to notice them, anyway. “Thank you, my Queen. Thank you.”

 

 

 

The dragon queen took Sansa into her chambers, past the members of what she called a foreign name, her _khalasar_ , but which Sansa couldn’t help but think of as a Queensguard. She gave Sansa food to eat and wine to drink, and spoke to her with surprising normalcy, given the circumstances.

“It must have been a long time since you were last in King’s Landing,” said Daenerys Targaryen, staring at her calmly. Up close, the queen’s face was as cool and pale as alabaster. Framed by her white hair, she looked as if she might be cool to the touch, like a marble statue.

It struck Sansa then, the vast emptiness of the Red Keep, which had once been so full of people—sycophants, hangers-on, false-mouthed nobility, yes, but people all the same. The halls they had passed through coming to the queen’s chambers had all been empty, silent, and dark. _It must be a slightly lonely existence here, for Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms._ She had, after all, no consort of whom Sansa was aware.

“I, too, know how it is to be very far from home,” said the dragon queen, sounding very composed. And Sansa thought with sudden surprise that _yes_ , she supposed that Daenerys did know.

They continued to talk, and Sansa let Daenerys come very close, over the hours, as the candles guttered into puddles of wax. Daenerys’ dragons were in the room, curled up by the open balcony doors, but Sansa could not see them from where she reclined and so could almost pretend they were not there. _The queen does seem lonely_ , she thought, recognizing dully the emotion that had crippled her own heart for almost as long as she could remember. If Sansa thought of the queen that way, it quelled her own nervousness, and made the queen seem so much less frightening.

But it could never be just about emotions, of course, when Sansa sensed that the other person wanted more. It was always imbalanced and she, Sansa, never had the final say. She tried to give with some willingness, bending so as not to break, but more would always be taken, in the end, than she had wanted to let go.

So when the dragon queen very gently stroked the back of Sansa’s hand, both of them a little flushed from the wine, Sansa was only a little surprised. Daenerys’ hands were unexpectedly delicate, like a child’s.

It had been so long since Sansa had been touched warmly, not since Margaery. And it did not feel, when she closed her eyes, entirely unwelcome. She knew what she was expected to do. She knew the options available to her. So she surrendered quietly, with head lowered and a look that permitted (invited, even; Sansa had always been good at acting) the queen to continue.

Daenerys reached for Sansa with a steady expression, and she kissed Sansa gently, at first. Her mouth was very warm, and her grip very strong.

With unsteady fingers, Sansa drew down the shoulder of the dragon queen’s diaphanous gown, and brought her mouth close to suck at Daenerys’ skin. Up close, Daenerys burned with a heat that was tepid, contained, not as terrifying as Sansa would have guessed. Sansa felt out of practice, unrehearsed, cheeks flushing as she tried to remember where to put her hands. _The queen is beautiful, and terrible_ , she thought, trying to calm herself, _but for all that she is a woman just the same_.

 _Mother of dragons_ , that was what they called her, wasn’t it? And from the way she drew Sansa into her arms, it seemed that perhaps she longed for someone, anyone else to mother as well.

After the initial tenderness, Daenerys lost no time in revealing an appetite that rivaled the ferocity of her justice in the Throne room. Sansa caught her breath at just how quickly the dragon queen changed—one moment she was only a woman, and the next moment she was entirely the queen, accustomed to taking what was hers.

Once the queen had stripped off Alayne Stone’s dark blue gown with bold fingers, she pushed Sansa down on the bed to recline there like some concubine (had she had many of those? the way she handled Sansa made Sansa think _yes_ ). She made Sansa tremble, quaking, how she kissed her conquering way down Sansa’s body. And Sansa watched with hot eyes, silently willing herself to relax, to be still, feeling less of a participant than an observer. 

Mere minutes after Daenerys put her white-fire head between Sansa’s legs, twisting her fingers inside Sansa with a royal sense of entitlement, licking at Sansa with a heat that made Sansa jump, Sansa came violently, legs seizing with her release. She gasped, and arched her back. Surely that was all the queen could want of her. She was limp, overcome.

And yet the dragon queen’s great appetite was not satisfied. She bent her brilliant head and cleaned Sansa almost dry, to the chorus of Sansa’s heavy rasping breaths. Still spreading Sansa apart with her fingers, she applied her tongue again and again at Sansa’s most sensitive spot, as one might lick hard at something elusive and delicious, as if she were not sated and still sought something more.

But it was too hard, and Sansa suddenly cried out in the sharp sensitivity of her comedown. In that split second she forgot all her long practice with silencing her discomfort and ignoring her pain. She flinched away, pushed at Daenerys’ head with an insistent hand—and felt all the breath leak from her chest when she remembered herself with a jolt of shock, like a puncture wound to the chest. She jerked back her hand and pressed it to her mouth, stunned.

_No._

She felt the dragon queen go still between her legs, hands stalled on Sansa’s knees. There was a moment in which neither woman moved. Sansa’s stomach turned violently with nerves.

At last the queen drew up to look Sansa in the eyes, and Sansa went hard with fear. Those violet eyes were, in the half-light, strangely hard and blank.

But then something shifted—and Daenerys’ face turned pliable, wondering. “Are you that frightened of me?” she said clearly. She looked, quite suddenly, like the very young woman that she was.

Able once again to breathe, Sansa lowered her eyes. She felt a lump swelling in her throat, choking her with the answers she might give. All these lives she had lived. Yet here she had ended up naked in another woman’s bed, yielding because she knew what she had to do to stay alive.

This time it was sex, but it wasn’t always. It could be anything. She wanted to put a hand to her face, to close her eyes tightly and turn her head away, but she didn’t dare. 

“Your Grace,” she said at last, with difficulty, “I have never known a king or queen to be kind.”

Daenerys pressed a gentling hand there between Sansa’s legs, as one might tame a horse. An apology, of sorts.

“They say that my family was all mad,” she said slowly. “I do not see it. But then, I would not know.”

Sansa said nothing. Daenerys took a hard breath, her face drawn.

“I promise you,” said the young queen in a steady voice,  “your brother is coming for you.”

She nodded, warily.

“And I promise to be gentle, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said, smoothing a strand of hair off Sansa’s sweat-dampened cheek, and bent to kiss her again. “I promise.”

But words would never be enough. Not after every sweet promise Sansa had heard in her lifetime. Even if this queen wished to be kind, she was ultimately no different from the rest of them, taking what she wanted, just how she wanted it.

She leaned back just before their lips met, feeling as if she might burn up if she had to submit even one more time.

“Sansa,” she said, and shut her eyes tight for a moment, just long enough to squeeze the tears out. Daenerys thought she was giving Sansa something, perhaps, but how could she know that she was taking more than she could ever give? Something felt rusted and old and broken in her, and she didn’t think it could ever be fixed.

Daenerys stared at her, violet eyes wide, realizing perhaps the price of being a conqueror, even in one’s intended, violent kindness. 

“My name is Sansa,” she repeated and shuddered, for it was so cold.

Suddenly, she felt so cold. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song by Lorde.


End file.
